


gin and chthonic

by iimpavid, voidteatime



Series: unfinished duet [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Art, Gen, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mythology - Freeform, Other, Peter Nureyev's Alias Catalog, Peter Nureyev's Backstory, Pluto - Freeform, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:35:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21710116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidteatime/pseuds/voidteatime
Summary: With a crime family hot on his heels a young thief flees to the edges of the Sol System in hopes of throwing them off his scent.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Original Character(s)
Series: unfinished duet [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564903
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	gin and chthonic

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, this is part of a couple of different series continuities and the broader picture that is Peter Nureyev’s Backstory. In the meantime, though, you can and should read it on its own.

It isn’t quite adequate to say that Pluto is cold. It’s more a miserable rock blanketed in a bone-deep brittle chill and scouring wind, even in the safety of a spaceport. The joke about Plutonian novels being exactly like their weather— endless, cold, and dark— is illuminated for one Aster Wright and he does not appreciate it in the least.

For some irrational reason, he had hoped that its self-sustaining illuminous matter domes wouldn’t be so unpleasant… maybe it was the heart silhouette the planet’s natural features made, visible only from afar, that had him fooled. Regardless of the cause he sat feeling altogether dejected in Pluto’s lonely spaceport and pulled his coat tighter around him. It’d been hand-stitched from several dozen tritonian ruff-maned minks and was probably an ecological disaster; it was certainly the product of horribly exploited labor. But it was flattering with its broad skirt and high collar, all vertical stripes of black leather and shining white fur, and it mitigated most of the pervasive chill seeping up through his boots. He couldn’t ask for more with the cold of space crowding in from every side.

Aster scrolled through various local events on his third-rate burner comms, silver-manicured thumbnail clicking against the glass screen in idle tempo. 

For a cold, dark rock on the farthest edges of the Sol system, Pluto thrummed with nightlife. The planet never slept; a man on the run couldn’t ask for better circumstances in which to lose himself. He had his pick of night clubs, niche markets, funeral homes, and wakes. Mourning had been elevated to performance art in rituals and customs as varied as the people who came from far and wide to commemorate their dead. He was spoiled for choice in terms of employment opportunities -- a stroke of luck considering he was fast approaching 72 hours without sleep, not a credit to his name, and a trail of frozen accounts behind him. 

Aster huffed. Spoiled for choice was a lucky position to be in but with so many options to choose from he was at a loss. Then, out of the clear void, he was struck by the sudden thought that if he didn’t get up _now_ he would find himself stuck to the terribly uncomfortable, terribly orange spaceport bench— and then who knew who might catch up with him?

He shoved himself off the bench and made for the exit, coat flaring behind him.

* * *

Opportunity presented itself after a brisk fifteen-minute walk through the great dome city of Tartarus that left snow stuck in his hair and his cheeks stained stinging pink. An art gallery. Without hesitation, Aster ducked inside, following the ambient heat of the crowd and the glitter of their jewelry like flames in the dark.

When crashing high-class soirees, the right attitude was half the battle.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not on the list Mister White.” 

“The name, my dear boy, is Aster _Wright_ — don’t tell me you don’t know who I am? I’m one of the Cixi’s primary investors; I’m the reason you have a job sitting at a reception desk passing out name tags.” 

In this case, the right attitude was _just obnoxious enough to hold up the line and be waved through_. 

Aster strolled through the gallery with an imperious aura, nose in the air and eyes sharp, not looking for the world like he had a vicious tension headache building at the base of his neck. A circulating waiter offered hors d'oeuvres and he restrained himself, barely, from making off with the entire platter.

Coming so far so fast with the Melva family hot on his heels had left him with little time to prepare and he recognized precious few of the mingling faces in the crowd. The elite of Pluto resemble any elite on any other world, the odd avant-garde gown scattered throughout tuxedos and evening dresses in expensive and rare fabrics, adorned with jewelry that slowly found its way into Aster’s pockets as he slid past— a pocket watch here, the locket off a chatelaine there, a valet ticket, bangles. By weight, at least a third of it was junk, but the rest…

He would find a fence. Somewhere. He didn’t know the first thing about the landscape of crime on Pluto but that was a problem for future consideration. For the moment his greatest concern was acquiring as many hors d'oeuvres and pocketable trinkets as politely possible before someone noticed he wasn’t actually on the guest list and kicked him out.

A bit away from the flow of the crowd, stood before a large and uninspiring painting (the frame, to his eye, was more valuable, with its gold leaf gilt) was a person in immaculate neons with a diamond-headed walking stick. They stood out amid the sea of formal black and white. Aster wanted their walking stick. His exhaustion retreated a little under the cool weight of the challenge: separating this tall, lovely person from the impressive canary diamond their gauntleted hand rested upon would not be easy but in the process he might find himself a bed for the night.

He sidled up beside them, champagne flute in hand, “Rather… unconventional, don’t you think?” 

They snorted, “Viceroy can barely manage to _mimic_ convention, let alone defy it. This is kindling.” 

“How refreshing to find such discerning company,” he laughed, like he knew the first thing about the artist on the chopping block, and offered his hand, “Aster Wright-- it’s a pleasure.” 

Behind pink pince-nez glasses a pair of blue eyes, so dark that their pupils were barely delineated, surveyed him. Aster could feel the weight of their gaze on his skin. A flush rose from his collarbones, a pink stain up his shoulders and neck. Goosebumps broke out across the backs of his arms. 

He was very aware, suddenly, of the snow that had melted into his hair, weighing down the tight waves he’d fought to iron into it two days ago on a Venusian leisure liner. 

“Lethe Dolce,” they said, and finally, _finally_ blinked and shook his hand. “Walk with me, Mister Wright. The date I brought with me to this thing has set her sights on…” They lean a bit down the hallway, watching a dark-skinned woman in a crystalline sculpted gown chat it up with a man who looked entirely too much like Salvador Dali with a robotic arm and tell Aster, significantly, “... the man of the evening. For what Viceroy lacks in style, he certainly makes up for in the gallery parties he throws. Shall we?”  
  
"Well, there's no accounting for taste," Aster said, blithe, as he took Lethe's arm. Tamped down on his initial impulse to trace his fingertips over the inside of their wrist in some fawning gesture. He wanted to determine just how the filigreed gauntlets fastened-- they were sterling silver, with detailing in platinum by the look of them, polished and sharpened to wicked claws at the fingertips-- there would be time for that later if he played his cards right. He smiled, just a little vicious, "Her loss is my gain." 

Lethe gave a running commentary of the pieces as they walked, clearly excited to show off their expertise to somebody new, with how they couldn't stop smiling as they described the contours of a bronze sculpture or the rawness of the visible underdrawing in a surrealist mercurial landscape. He peered over the pieces they described, largely disinterested but keeping up appearances. He was content to let himself be led, even if just for the length of the gallery, heels clicking in time with Lethe's walking stick beneath the low hum of social climbing. 

The triplet of their steps was almost a distraction-- until they reached their destination. Nothing could have distracted Aster from the display before him. Tucked into a quiet corner of the gallery was a series of portraits in abstract and each one of them was mesmerizing. 

" _Oh_ ," he breathed. 

Torn between the discomfort of faces made faceless and brilliant and the fascinated feeling that they were somehow looking back through their layers of color, he could only stand there, transfixed.

Lethe lifted their walking stick and relaxed it on their shoulder as Aster broke away to be transported by the series of small portraits. They weren’t surprised by the placement, shoved back where no one would notice them unless they were led there, but they felt the insult anyway. Standing behind Aster, at least he couldn't see the disgruntled expression on their face. "Ah yes, Hieron. Quite the talent, you know, _for a Martian painter_."

Aster, meanwhile, stood stock still because if he didn't he was going to walk right up and touch one of the paintings. Maybe just lift one off the wall right then and there and walk away with it, alarm be damned. 

Mx. Dolce chuckles to themself, reciting lines they’ve heard at countless other gallery shows which have been snidely omitted from the plaques accompanying each painting: "Unlike many Martian artists, their work at least gives the illusion of something beyond surface-level abstraction. Most attribute their unique style of portraiture to their prosopagnosia-- face-blindness."

The security had a steady circuit but the camera system was out of date by a few years. He could, with a little effort, get into the gallery after hours. He wouldn’t need more than a plasma cutter and some duct tape and maybe a hairpin to pry panels up from locks. 

Almost imperceptibly quiet, he said, " _I want them._ " Peter felt his heart beating hard against his ribs. Could see, for a sublime moment, every fractionated fall of light and shadow on the painting before him. The heavy layers of oil paint seemed to move. Then Aster breathed in again and visibly lightened. He turned back to Lethe beaming, "I think Mars has quite the hidden gem."

Lethe tilted their head to one side a bit and felt their own face redden before pushing their delight down by its shoulders.

"Well, I'm sure if you talk to the curator they'll let you purchase one. Everything has its price, Mister Wright and a _Hieron_ would be a wise investment. That concludes the impromptu tour, I'm afraid. But if we left now nobody would notice that you snuck yourself in, dear." 

They flick their tongue playfully at his bewildered expression: caught red-handed and hoping the floor might swallow him. 

"I may have spotted you snatching hors d'oeuvres,” they tease, “You should know that nobody at these kinds of parties actually eats the food, they just get drunk on champagne."

"They're missing out; the catering company did a fine job, especially with the tiny Ioan yak quiches," Aster replied, recovering gracefully. He took Hieron's arm again, "But I suppose you're right. I'm not exactly salivating for a chance to get to know security better-- though I'm sure they're lovely people. Where to, Mx. Dolce?"

"It’s cliche, I know, but my place isn't far from here. I only have so much energy for these events."

“Let’s get you out of the limelight, then, shall we?”

Lethe wove them through the milling about the crowd, snatching and draining another champagne flute between Hieron’s lonely corner of the gallery and the door. 

* * *

Compared to the mansions that floated across the city, Lethe's place was grounded figuratively as well as literally. Its foundations were solid and sunk into the crust of the dome. It harkened back to twentieth-century Earth architecture, mid-century. Its decor was sedate, all light wood and glass and luxurious fabrics. 

"Make yourself comfortable," they offer as they start a fire roaring in the hearth. 

A mechanical clock ticked away on one foyer wall. 

" _Incredible_." 

Aster drew close to it, to watch the minute movements of its hands. Anywhere else he might find an excuse to take it apart but it had the look of a genuine Earth antiquity. It was too precious for the slight weakness of his hungry hands. He'd never forgive himself for breaking it. 

Trailing after Lethe, he ran his fingertips over a low bookshelf. For no other reason than touching the wood grain and enjoy the feeling of tracing in the opposite direction. Lethe's books were few but intriguing, collections of artwork and photography peppered with dense titles like, _Cybalion: Hermetic Philosophy, Interview with a Mindeater, The Book of Soigya_. He picked up the last and paged through it; it had the look of an ancient English dialect, that much was obvious, but beyond that, it was lost on him. Rare books were not his forte. (A lack, he thought, that ought to be remedied soon.) There was no dust on the shelf to outline its place but he returned it with delicate fingers and positioned it exactly as it had been before.

"Not one for light reading, are you," he teased, leaning down the hall to see where they’d gone; a bedroom, by the look of the light trailing them. He wandered back to the living room, folded his coat over the back of the couch, relief at being warm enough to take it off palpable. "Have you lived here long?"

"I'm more of a streams person," Lethe called back as they removed their jewelry and set it back on the sculpted hand placed atop a vanity in their room, as well as a heavy velvet-lined box for the neckpiece. The flowing dress they wore was shucked off with far less care than their jewelry— draped over an ottoman -- and a relieved sigh. Under it, they wore little more than fashion tape and lower lingerie. "According to my parent, I'm native Plutonian, if the fact I can wear practically nothing outside and barely shiver is any indication. I have lived here most of my life, with the occasional pleasure trip to the rest of the Sol system, when I can make the time."

Between beats Aster watched them go about their business entirely as if he weren't there. He could work with being ignored. He sat on the sofa, legs crossed, his chin propped on one hand, watching the fire for a nod to Mx. Dolce's privacy. The fire was a luxurious oxygen sink for which he couldn't be more grateful. 

Lethe peeled the fashion tape slowly and froze, blinking, when they realized Aster was still there with a line of sight directly between the living room and their door. "Oh! I invite you to take whatever you want off, Aster. The windows are set to night mode, we can see out, but nobody can see in, even if we turned all the lights on. Those shoes look...uncomfortable." 

"Oh, these?” He glanced down as if he’d forgotten them. He'd lost feeling in his feet a few hours ago and the swelling was sure to be unsightly. Not to mention the fact that getting them back on in a hurry wouldn't be easy, and he was, only sometimes, a creature of caution. “I could walk a tightrope in them, it's no bother." 

Without their walking stick and heavy jewelry to manage, Lethe's movements were freer as they ghosted down the hall to retrieve a transparent robe and back again and waved a hand to bring up some music. "A drink, Aster? I have enough gin to open my own palace."

"I'll have an Ampersand, if you have the vermouth for it... I'd hate to leave you so overwhelmed by your own liquor cabinet."

“ _If_ I have vermouth,” Lethe chuckled to themself from the kitchen; they moved about their house with a silence Aster admired. “By your coat, you must not get out to Pluto often. Where are you from, Aster? Warmer climes, clearly.”

“Indeed not,” he smiled, running a hand over the heavy pelt he’d liberated from a librettist near Triton. He hoped she wouldn’t miss it too much. She’d been headed for the Venusian Atmospheric Array; he’d needed it more. 

He turned just enough to watch Lethe out of the corner of his eye. One thing he would always be grateful for in open floor plans: constant visibility. “Oh, just an Outer Rim world, I doubt you’ve heard of it. We don’t get many tourists or media. When I first left I was assured my blood would “thicken up” and I’d get used to the cold on other worlds but, no such luck, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Oh, an Outer Rim planet! One day I’ll get out there. It’s been a trial to get a travel visa for anything outside Sol and every long-haul cruiser has been booked for months…”

They brought Aster his drink and sat adjacent on the couch, folding their legs up underneath them while they sipped from their martini glass of gin, lemon, and lavender. They pull the pin from their hair and let it fall, giving it a tousle, romantic waves of brown and auburn. They were wilder with their hair down, in a filmy robe, free of pageantry and structure, commanding in their gestures and unfolding across their space. “What do you do? I’m an art critic, obviously, I hope my going on about the art wasn’t _too_ boring for you.”

“There’s not much to be found in the Outer Rim that you can’t find elsewhere and with fewer chances in getting caught in the crossfire of a civil war.” The dismissal is as sure a tell as anything so he focuses on the vanilla notes of the cocktail Lethe made him, warm on the back of his tongue, and tries to find a delicate way to redirect. “But I’m in interplanetary trade— the necessities of the business have, perhaps, inured me to the charms of travel. I’m starting to warm up to Pluto. It’s not often I have the pleasure of such exquisite and knowledgeable company.” 

“As you know, flattery will get you everywhere,” they purred over their drink, eyes slipping from Aster to the fire. Then, abruptly, “It’s late, I’m afraid this will have to be my last drink, Aster darling. I have business to attend to in a few hours and I must get my 8 hours. I’m sure you understand. I have a guest room just through there.” They gesture vaguely in the direction they meant, around a glass-encased garden with a fountain that babbled. “I try not to share my bed with strangers before the second night.”

The surprise didn't show in his face but there was a soft pause as he reordered his plans for the evening. The perpetual dark of the Plutonian domes was beginning to confuse his sense of time. "You... won't even know I'm here, I assure you, Mx. Dolce."

* * *

The greenhouse Lethe has cultivated-- or else paid someone handsomely to cultivate-- dominates his attention once he’s alone. The garden was a brilliant globe of green in the middle of the house. There are plants in it he couldn't name but had seen pictures of, the sorts of wild vines that grew well and hardy on the highest peaks of Brahma. Those plants were less-violent and easier to control; the cold made them sluggish.

He yawned so hard his jaw cracked, then his neck, and he had no choice but to trust in the ebb and flow of his situation. 

As tempting as it is to collapse face-first onto Lethe's guest bed and not move for at least an hour... Peter draws a bath instead. Hot water is his favorite luxury. Passing it up would be criminal. The contrast of chilled porcelain and steaming water relaxed every muscle he had or near enough to it. It was worth the sacrifice of the finger waves (which he'd for some foolish reason, decided Aster Wright required) to sink below the water and drift there for as long as he could hold his breath.

Five slow, languid minutes later he emerged over the waterline in a controlled rise and breathed deep.

 _Aster Wright._

He thought over the last several days with his new name and affectations and snorted, making the still water ripple. 

There were more chips in his personality than in his mirrored nail polish-- and he was in desperate need of a fresh manicure. His history would have to be spun out of thin air with every step. Peter had no friends on Pluto-- or the glittering lunar cities on Charon or Nix-- willing to join the game for a few hundred creds (not that he had a dime anyway) and fill him out. 

It was embarrassing. 

If it weren't for the hot water he'd've blushed.

Peter stretched as best he could, wishing a bit ungratefully the clawed foot tub were a little longer-- the awful, gorgeous boots Dora gave him before— well, before the _present—_ might have numbed his feet but everything above them ached and he would love to sink back below the waterline and stay there until the water grew cold. But as it was he had to choose between soaking his knees or his head and his knees needed the break more, if just barely.

He was distantly proud to have managed to get Aster into the Cixi at all, even if through the power of entitlement and exasperated staff. Security would have been along to collect him, he was sure of that now, if Lethe hadn't been so kind as to let him hang off their arm.

Lethe brought a shiver to mind but not a chill. 

Exhaustion made him paranoid, true, but they were onto him. He was certain he'd never met them and neither Ysadora Melva nor her father had been particularly keen on art so the Melvas couldn’t be using Lethe to track him-- but there was something there. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

Not that he was in a position to do anything about it. Not yet. The water had begun to cool and so it didn’t bear further consideration.

He pulled the stopper with his aching toes-- another novelty, analog in the extreme-- and stepped gingerly out of the tub. Wrapped himself in what might have been the softest robe he'd ever felt. The man in the mirror looked back at him, blurry without his glasses but still, regrettably, recognizable: in the shape of his jaw, the slant of his shoulders, the long scar down the center of his chest. 

In the sink, his socks and underpinnings had been soaking and he took a few tired minutes to rinse them, too, wring them out and hang them over the towel rack nearest the heater vent. It would be a few hours before they dried-- the least he could do in the meantime was get some sleep.

* * *

Waking up, Peter wasn’t sure of the year at first, or where he is. Buried under a mountain of blankets and pillows that smelled faintly of detergent and strangeness he thought he might be in a hotel... until he wandered out of his room and remembered: the weapons cache on Europa, Ysadora Melva and Irina Morten and their desperate bid to elope, Gerard Melva’s various and sundry henchpersons... and his far more threatening political reach. Aster Wright had come to Pluto penniless, hungry, and cold.

The house was empty except for the sound of the ticking analog clock and the soft high-pitched hum of an armed security system, barely audible except to ears trained to listen for that very thing. Stepping lightly through the halls, nose stuck in his comms, he scrolled through a series of dummy accounts in the names of aliases. He got through ten separate banks that didn’t recognize his existence before giving up.

There was a note on the kitchen island in messy handwriting: 

> _Aster,_ _  
> _ _I enjoyed our chat and I hope you got the rest you needed. Feel free to make yourself breakfast before you leave._ _  
> _ _Or, if you like, take the creds from the envelope under this note and buy yourself a new outfit. I have another exhibition opening to attend tonight and I could use the arm candy as an excuse not to talk to anybody else._ _  
> _ _xoxo_ _  
> _ _L_
> 
> _P.S. Please don’t rob me._ _  
> _ _P.P.S. Here’s the gallery address._

And true to their word, there were about 3000 creds in small bills in the envelope the note was scrawled on. 

He read the note twice. Glanced around without raising his head— over the tops of his glasses, as if that would do him any good at all— for any sign of surveillance.

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth,” he murmurs (pauses to wonder idly why anyone would consider looking into a horse’s mouth in the first place, what with all the teeth and the double-jaws). 

He leaves the envelope where it lies and looks instead to his coat pockets. The small stash he’d amassed before Lethe took him in was still there (along with a few of the tiny quiches which he promptly disposes of), unchanged and unmarked. He dumps his amassed trinkets out onto Lethe’s living room floor. He doesn’t know a good fence on Pluto but that doesn’t preclude seedy pawn shops. But that would necessitate leaving and from the look of things Lethe had gone for modern locks instead of keeping with the analog theme. He had no intention of being left out in the cold. 

A few seconds’ debate had him calling Cora Seleny. The connection to Shiva was tenuous this far into the Sol System but after a few crackling minutes she answered, “Miss Seleny’s Curiosities and Curations, make this worth my time.” 

“Cora! It is so good to hear from you!” 

There was a pause. She made an impatient noise. “ _You_ called _me_ , Elias.” 

“I did! And that’s because I have something that I think you’re going to enjoy!” 

“I don’t have time for your ancient space junk.” 

He picked through his pile of new jewelry with magpie delight. “Junk! You shouldn’t judge before you’ve seen! After all, I’m currently admiring a Nixian fire opal the size of your thumb, a strand of blue Rangian etherium pearls, and a fully functional Jupitish pocket watch circa 5730.” 

“Hydrogen War Era watches are a dime a dozen.” 

“Not if they’re inlaid with _ivory_ ,” he singsonged.

“Real ivory?” 

“Confirmed genuine,” he said, confident and cool in his assertion as he would be about stating the existence of gravity.

“...When can you be here?” 

He smiled at the hunger in her voice. “ _Soon_ ,” he crooned, “But I want the money upfront and I won’t take less than ninety.”

“ _Elias_.” 

“ _Cora_. I’m on _Pluto_. Do you know how expensive it is to charter a shuttle from Pluto to Shiva? Taking a cargo ship would have me traveling for at least three months— I could find another buyer for that time sink.”

“You can have half now and if it isn’t genuine I’m taking it out of your bones.”

Soundlessly Peter collapsed to sprawl on the sofa, giddy with relief. He wasn’t in the least bit worried about mining out his marrow. If he couldn’t back up his claims of real ivory now he would just get some for Cora later and she would let him, like she always did, because she knew whatever he could bring her would always be worth more than he was. 

“Of course,” he said, placating. “You can transfer the funds to these coordinates, can’t you?”

She grumbled, “As a drip, sure. You won’t have the full amount for a few weeks. Who’s trying to kill you so bad you gotta go and use such a shitty comms setup with _transfer limits_?”

“If you want to know _that_ it’ll cost you extra.”

“Be here in a month or I’m sending my sisters to pick you up.”

“As if I would ever miss a date with you!”

She hung up on him and, after fifteen tense minutes of staring at the screen, the first transfer arrived, a few fractions below the pay-as-you-go comms’ limit. Peter accepted it. Stared at the glorious number: 14,999. And he began to laugh. 

Pluto was no Amaranthine, Mercury, but with enough liquid funds, he could still have anything delivered. So he did: a real breakfast, new luggage, a good lock-breaking kit, new shoes, a week’s worth of clothes _just expensive enough_ to let him look like a gaudy ladder climber desperate for attention— but not so expensive as to deserve custom-tailoring. He sent his coat off for dry cleaning. The drone-delivered boxes and bags piled quickly in the foyer and he took deep satisfaction in flattening them and feeding them into Lethe’s hyper-composter. 

By the foyer clock’s count, he had just enough time left, when all was said and done, to get dressed. He intended to give a good showing. If he played his cards right, he was sure of it, he wouldn’t have to waste a cent on a hotel.

* * *

Having never been to Pluto before, much less circulated in its high life, its fashion conventions were foreign to Aster... So he wore red to the gallery. _Vermillion_. A floor-length gown, slit to the hip, in the same brilliant longwave shade that might be found at the center of the universe. The wasp-waisted bodice was gold silk, embroidered with translucent amber beads. Matching heels constructed from woven metal: burnished gold. In the close-knit crowd of black-on-black couture he ... stood out more than he intended to.

He wore the attention well, striding from his limousine to Lethe Dolce’s side. Lethe suited the gallery crowd in their black architectural dress and red eye makeup, their hair down and curled, their smile sol-warm when they see Aster-- and not only because they have gold fanged veneers. 

“Oh, Aster, you came! You look marvelous! Step quickly though, I don’t want to get held up by the welcoming party…”

"Ah, good, we match,” he said, noting Lethe’s makeup, red and gold and stunningly vibrant about the eyes in the crowd of funereal-chic. “You are balm for weary eyes... You don't think I'm overdressed, do you?"

"Overdressed, in this town? Never, darling."

He wrapped his arm through theirs and beamed at security as they swanned past. "Tell me everything, who are we here to needle?"

“Everyone we possibly can.” 

They avoided the throng nearest the door, snatching requisite champagne flutes from a tray and giving a playful toast to each other. This gallery was smaller than the last, intimate, with only one floor with a guest list a third the length. People clustered together and drifted from one group to the next as if through osmosis. Everyone seemed, in some way, interconnected. 

Aster wouldn’t have been able to irritate his way into this gallery alone had he wanted to. 

Large paintings loomed down from the walls. Mournful portraits of some unknown figure, dark and moody. Their faces wore multiple expressions that shifted with the angle of view. Dominating the center of the room was a glass pillar with suspended bubbles of red and black liquid. The furthest wall was a full mural depicting a nebula, shimmering and hopeful but at the same time so empty, the blackness of the space it occupied so devoid of light it looked like a hole in reality.

"Sevoglio Zarathustra: A Retrospective," Lethe mused. They didn't seem to have nearly as many words for this artwork, unlike others, as they partially read the copy from the gallery wall. "Working in the Neo-neo-impressionist style, Zarathustra was obsessed with capturing the soul of the painter in his artwork. To the point where he, as a younger man, would literally bleed onto the canvas...He was...interesting."

Lethe seemed to be lost in thought for a moment before a young woman wearing lace over her eyes tapped the critic on their shoulder. 

"What do you think, Mx. Dolce, would Sev be impressed?"

"Well, Mrs. Myles, I do think he'd be a bit annoyed that _Stygian Droplets_ was made the centerpiece, but then the old fool shouldn't have made it ten feet tall… but it's beautiful. I am sorry he couldn't come to see it himself. He's _very_ busy, you know."

"Of course. I look forward to your review. You and your date enjoy yourselves."

The curator departed and Lethe breathed a sigh of relief and stroked Aster's arm apologetically. "See what we critics have to deal with?"

“Oh, the hardship of having to have an opinion on everything is undeniable,” Aster commiserated, thawing under their gaze and touch, “I don’t know how you tolerate it. There’s a reason why I chose a career that requires the exact opposite.” 

Looking again to the centerpiece he could think of a few people who’d want to buy it despite being far from able to transport it himself. He cocked his head, watching the angle of the light through it. “You didn’t _mean_ to imply that’s blood, did you? A deliciously morbid thought, but it would coagulate so quickly...” He frowned, delighted at the array of unknowns. “And if you were to paint with blood how would you maintain the color? Oxygen comes for us all, eventually, and dried blood is nowhere near as lovely a shade.”

A knowing smirk tugged at Lethe’s lips, “Nanoparticles, I assume, to prevent clotting, and each droplet is vacuum-sealed within the glass so no oxidation would occur. He thought himself quite clever for that.” 

Unlike the other pieces of art on display, this one invited touch and, at certain angles, one could see the oils left from countless palms from this evening alone. Lethe brushed their fingers against the cold glass.

“As for the blood as paint, that’s pretty simple, a sealant is applied almost immediately by an apprentice. Great painters rarely work alone these days. Art is a collaboration, always.” They sidestep around the monolith to avoid being in eyeshot of an approaching couple, slipping from Aster’s grasp for just a second. They explain, “I’m considered an…expert on Zarathustra, of sorts.”

He followed them around the pillar, graceful in his towering heels, but not quite reaching for them. Both their reflections were distorted in the glass and then again by the suspended fluid within it. In his estimation, _Stygian Droplets_ had just tripled in value.

“Is that so? You don’t sound particularly enthused about that designation.” He refrained from adding his fingerprints to the milieu, “Maybe you should find a way to disabuse people of that assumption.”

“Much like in these artworks, the blood lingers.” 

Lethe turned on their heel and swept their way towards the catering table-- and stopped halfway there. Their eyes dilated like a hungry cat when it spies some glittering thing to swat and chew. Aster followed their gaze. It wasglittery. So much so that it looked like it may have been an ice sculpture if it weren’t for the fact it was being used to hold warm canapes: a diamondese swan with large rubies set into its eyes and yellow sapphires encrusting its bill. 

They forgot their somber turn entirely. “It’s so... _fucking_ …. **_ugly_ ** …” Their fingers twitched a bit. The _and I must have it_ was implied without subtlety.

“Oh my… I don’t know think it’s supposed to be used for… that. Although I suppose diamondese is a good insulator.” 

The swan was a waste of the effort put in to mine its materials. It stared impassively at them with condensation gathering on the underside of its garish bill.

Aster looked from Lethe to the swan, from the swan to the catering staff to security, back to the swan. He should have worn the mink coat, clashing pattern be damned, that thing’s pockets could hold a whole banquet table. 

But, then, the challenge was half the fun. 

In a delighted undertone, he said, “Lethe, how many people would be put out if you were to … make a scene?”  
  
“Mmm, well they all came here _expecting_ me to make one, so I would have their undivided attention…” 

  
They’re hesitant. Surveying the crowd-- and then the swan. Something in them resolves, suddenly, and with playful kiss to Aster’s cheekbone and a purr of “Impress me,” in his ear, they pick up another champagne flute and a tiny fork.

Goosebumps broke out across his bare shoulders. “Meet me outside when you’re done,” he breathed. 

Lethe winked and made their way to the front of the gallery, well away from the food.

The universal and delicate tapping of a shrimp fork on crystal rang over the assemblage and, in a ripple, the conversations drew to whispers and then silence.

“ _A toast_! To.... _genius_ ….” they sing-song in a clear cadence that has toasted this exact thing many times before. They knew how to say everything and nothing at once, which meant they held every artist, socialite, and buyer there transfixed so Aster could get to work. 

Peter indulged himself. Watched them hold the room in their palm. Lethe may not have been fully in their element but he’d never have guessed it— then he slipped out of his shoes and backed out the catering entrance, a doorway mostly obscured by, of all things, plants. They must have cost a fortune to keep alive. 

The beats were familiar: joke with the staff about needing a break from his shoes, let them roll their eyes when they think he isn’t looking ( _how hard it must be to be so wealthy_ ). Once his being ignored is assured, throw on the top half of a uniform and pad barefoot in inconspicuous black to the buffet table to whisk away empty dishes. Lose the uniform, keep the jacket. 

It was overkill. Too much effort for a glorified ashtray. He loved every second of it. 

Lethe’s extemporaneous speech extolling the virtues of Zarathustra let him walk right out the front doors without drawing a second glance, the black polyester jacket hung over the heavy hunk of diamondese nestled into the crook of his arm. Members of the audience were too busy dabbing their eyes at Lethe’s poetic deconstruction of Zarathustra’s struggles with reality.

The statue garden outside the gallery was less than welcoming-- abstract constructions of metal, glass, and stone lit from odd angles with harsh light, it might have been more interesting in the daylight but there was no daylight to be had. He made himself right at home anyway. Perched atop the base of the least-pointy statue, crossed his legs, and tried to look nonchalant about the fact that he’d suddenly remembered that cold marble was a terrible thing to sit on. He eased the swan from the folds of the jacket and wrapped himself up instead.

It was several minutes more before Lethe emerged from the gallery. Their heels clicked on the courtyard pavement, echoing between the statues, as they made their way casually to his shadowy perch, lighting a clove cigarette. They let out a happy sigh that curled in wisps of smoke at the sight of him. “Did you get the goods, my love?”

“While you were holding court I was hard at work; those catering platters are heavy, you know.” He hopped to the ground. Angled just so to keep his back to the security cameras, he presented Lethe with the swan, giving a small bow. “For you, Mx. Dolce. _That_ is a 15 million cred hunk of diamondese, more depending on its clarity; make sure you get a fair price for it.” 

They didn’t have the heart to tell him that they had no intention of selling it nor that it was only a fraction of their own net worth. It was a fine estimate of Aster’s worth, they were sure of that much, should the collecting bug bite with any kind of sincerity.

They wrapped their long fingers around the swan and heft it about, impressed that he’d handled it so gracefully despite its weight-- but then they were the sort of rail-thin only hard drug use could achieve. “It’s divine. What would you like as payment? I have my ideas, of course, if you don’t.” 

They moved in much closer, ostensibly to shield the swan from prying eyes. With their cigarette dangled between the index and middle fingers of their left hand, they tugged Aster closer for a smoky kiss. “Nobody's ever stolen anything for me before, nothing of value."

“Don’t worry, the first one’s free.” An altogether new policy murmured against their mouth and one he was certain would only ever apply to Lethe. 

* * *

The cold never became less bracing but as the weeks wound on Aster found he _minded_ it less. Lethe's company warmed him.

Pluto wasn't hospitable to life in the least but that hadn't stopped life from taking hold beneath the great dome of Tartarus. During the time the populace generally agreed should make up any given "day" the streets bustled to bursting; with shopping socialites, business drones, schoolchildren, processions. This last caught Aster's attention. He thought, at first, it was a wedding party. Something similar to what he'd seen on Brahma years ago with the happy, spirited couple packed onto a palanquin dripping with harmless flowers and if they were from exceptionally wealthy families, jeweled and wrought lace. Accompanying musicians were a must. Weddings could, would, and should shut down traffic through entire neighborhoods. The same, it seemed, was true on Pluto.

Except this palanquin hosted corpses. Old ones. Well-preserved and grinning with glittering coins set into their eye sockets. Carried on the shoulders of some two dozen folks, some of whom were doing the carrying and the rest seemed intent on staying involved, they were visible to everyone on the street. Everyone on the street stopped dutifully to wave and shout encouragement to the procession, leaning out windows and exiting shops. Whether the shouting was meant for the pallbearers or the corpses wasn’t clear but Aster had his suspicions.

Naturally, he waved them along, too. Parroted Lethe’s sentiments in NeoItaliano without knowing at all what he said. When they’d safely passed he asked, “Did you know them?”

No, not at all, but it’s the polite thing to do,” Lethe explained, putting the car in gear again now that traffic was flowing a little more steadily. "Can you imagine being shut up in your crypt all year and no one says hello when you emerge to show off how well you've mummified? It would be heartbreaking. I'd curse people out of spite; not that _metafora_ is the route I'm going to go. It's not like I'm having children. A set of cyberhunds might be nice."

"You could probably program them to carry a palanquin," Aster offered, not at all feeling anxious about his own mortality or devoting any thought to the subject whatsoever. "I hear models are in development with near-sapient intelligence in some fringe markets." 

"No! Really? Where? The last time I did any research only rudimentary AI were available." 

"Oh, I know a machinist in the Kuiper Belt. AI isn't his specialty, he prefers hardware to software, obviously, but there are some fringe markets where sentient, sapient models are in demand. Usually for Outer Rim militaries and very expensive but... they are out there." 

"Damn black markets," Lethe pouted, "I suppose I understand why you wouldn't want such a thing commercially available but they should at least have the courtesy of making their services a bit easier to f--" They slammed on the brakes as a jaywalker strode with foolish confidence into the street. Rolled down their window once more to shout, " _Capra sporca_!" They bit their thumb emphatically at him.

Even without a lick of NeoItaliano in his vocabulary, Aster understood that one. He laughed.

Lethe huffed. "You'd think people like that had a deathwish. The afterlife’s great but I, personally, am in no hurry to get there!" 

"But you are in a hurry to get somewhere," Aster observed, eyeing the speedometer.

"Parking is absolutely atrocious at Prespes this time of night."

"According to local time, it's midday." 

"Is it? That explains the traffic." 

Prespes Park was not so much a park as a great expanse of eternally frozen ice polished to smoothness in the middle of the city. Statuary of great mythic figures was set into the ice, romantic arrangements of dryads and monsters and struggling heroes, stained glass lit from within, set upon by climbing youths and photographers and tired ice skaters. Bridges interlaced over it occasionally spiraling down to meet the surface of the lake below. Their undersides were hung with lamps and decorated with gilt meant to resemble vines. 

The skaters clearly varied in skill. Those less steady on their feet, carried on a counterclockwise current, gravitated toward the shore where a low wall ran. The more adventurous wove and spun through the interior of the lake wherever their own eddies took them.

Aster sat on a bench beside the skate rental booth and looked up at Lethe. They were significantly less bundled than he was with their light coat, its skirt and cuffs embroidered with dozens of golden eyes, without gloves or a scarf and their hair tied up to expose the close-shaved sides of their scalp and their delicate ears to the cold. The weight of his coat, while warm, suddenly felt clumsy. The skates strapped to his feet, heavy and graceless on the padded ground of the shore, brought back memories of ankle weights and bells and tripwires and learning to walk without making a sound. The memory made his stomach flip.

“I’ve never done this before,” Peter told them, aware that this is at least the second time he’s said it since they left the house and unable to stop himself repeating it.

“It’s a lot less intimidating than it looks; we’ll take it slow.” 

“I’ve heard that before,” he quipped but he took their offered hand and let them lead him the few yards to the open ice like a pair of exceptionally awkward ducks.

He overbalanced the second he stepped onto the ice. 

Lethe caught him. In a smooth shift, they were suddenly in front of him, skating backward, letting him brace his forearms on theirs. He laughed, a compulsive sound, and tries to adjust his center of gravity as they pulled him along. Other skaters seemed to fly past.

“You’re going to have to pick up your feet eventually,” Lethe said, weaving theirs behind them with the blind confidence of practice.

“You say that now, but if I do, I’m going to fall.” 

“Then fall. I’ll catch you.” Their smile outshone the UV lamps strung above them. “Or we’ll both go down together and we’ll make a farce of figuring out how to get back up— then try again.” 

They made it sound so easy. 

Maintaining balance was an alien trick, shifting weight from blade edge to blade edge and convincing his knees that they do in fact want to stay bent just so. He laughs when he catches hold of it, finally, loosening his grip on Lethe to lengthen his stride— and laughed when bad timing sent both of them crashing to the ground together. 

“Oh, Lethe, forgive me,” he gasped, helpless and giggling on his back and overcome with something like relief because Lethe’s arms were still around him. They were laughing, too, sweet and ringing. Nix and Charon sat low on the horizon, star-bright in their own rights. Even with the light of the dome, the field of stars above them was dense and looming low enough to touch. He felt, for a second, like he might fall up into them.

“What for? Come, you’ve almost got it.” Lethe found their feet first and pulled him up by the hands, only wobbling a little themself. 

They made their shaky, giggling way together to the base of a statue— of Icarus, Peter noted, if the wings and falling feathers were any indication— and he immediately sat down.

Lethe’s admonition came as a tease, “Are you giving up already?” 

“Never! Let me just watch you for a few minutes, though.” 

“Oh, you like to watch, do you?” 

“I’m something of a voyeur,” he confessed.

They cut him a quizzical glance but go on their way, circling him at Icarus’ feet and cutting little pirouettes and waving as they pass him by. But they were harder to study for their coat and a skater farther afield in a thermal leotard caught his eye. Like any other blueprint, he studies her with a consuming focus: weight distribution, timing, the angles of each gesture, small shifts in muscle tension, the way she breathes. Each facet of body and movement that worked in tandem to produce not only a cohesive whole but a beautiful one.

Reluctant, but understanding the necessity of it, he shrugged out of his fur coat and left it at the statue’s base. He mimicked her. At least until she caught on to him and changed tack, cutting a tight circle to reverse direction. 

“How do you do that?” 

“Dunno,” the skater lifted an elegant shoulder as she passed him, talking as easily as if they were stood still on the sidewalk. “It’s kind of like weaving?” 

“ _Weaving_ ,” he muttered and repeated her same footwork. 

He was alarmed to suddenly find himself reversed but he laughed through this, too, having no choice but to let the momentum carry him. The only other option was falling. The last thing he wanted to do was fall. The rhythm of a body in motion was clearer to pick out after that, the steady pull and push against synth-gravity gliding over the ice in mimicry that came — not _naturally_ to him but close enough to it.

She did something that he couldn’t parse then leaped and a few assembled onlookers applauded her. All he could bring himself to do was bow and steer away to find Lethe. Better to leave the spotlight to people who knew what to do with it. 

“Oh, Aster, you’re a natural!”

It was easier to talk to them skating backward. “So says they who haven’t fallen once since we got here! I’m going to be black and blue from hip to knee,” he complained but he preened under their praise. His color was high and his breathing was heavy and deep; he worked hard to keep a hold of the semblant grace he’d attained and was all the more indecent for it.

“I’ve had more opportunity to practice is all,” they grinned. Their movements were elegant with long, sure strides that culminated in a spin that made their coat flare. Its golden eyes flashed in the light and seemed to blink.

Aster copied them and found himself wobbling once more on his tired knees. Laughing, he caught himself against them and just managed not to topple them. “I need all the practice I can get. Whoever decided it was a good idea to put dancing on blades was either a genius or a madman.” 

They pulled him close, their arm secure and warm around his waist. “In my experience, those two things tend to blend together.”

“And lucky we are to benefit from their insight.” 

Peter thought about kissing them. The thought about the way his whole body felt over-warm and weak in his current momentum and about knowing that veering too far off course _will_ make him fall. He thought of Lethe falling with him, laughing. 

He kissed them. 

The pair of them glided to a gentle stop against the shore-wall. The jolt of it was enough, though, for Lethe to bite his lower lip— entirely by mistake. He gasped into their mouth.

“I think, Lethe, we should go home.” 

Their answering smile was wicked. “No, Aster, remember? We have plans.” 

“Oh, yes, that’s right.” 

The cold was terrible when they pulled away. He followed their ambient heat. Even his coat— returned with a wink by the figure skater who had so kindly let him follow her; he’ll find her comms coordinates tucked into his pocket later and throw them out— wasn’t anywhere near comforting. Still, he slipped back into his own boots with impossible relief, feeling far steadier in heels than on blades.

“My legs feel like jelly; people who do this professionally must have thighs like steel girders.” 

“You did a lot more than most people do their first time on the ice; usually there’s a lot more falling involved, sometimes broken bones for the unlucky.” 

“Once was _plenty_ ,” he said, clearly dissatisfied to have fallen at all. Potential corrections for every stumble in between stood out in his memory as he compulsively combed back through the learning curve. If Lethe weren’t with him— well, he wouldn’t be here at all, but if left to his own devices he’d find pancaine for the ache starting up in his lower back and head out onto the ice again until he was satisfied.

Lucky him, then, that Lethe led him the opposite direction. 

The shop they were headed to occupied a conspicuous street corner. It was made all the more conspicuous by its relative homeliness, wooden construction, and scant three stories. Where its windows would be there were vibrant murals of stars that shimmered in the lamplight. The marquee read, Heliopolis. The porch hosted a swing that looked like no one had sat on it in its life; it was immaculate and still. The boards-- real wood-- creaked just slightly as they walked over them, their footsteps ringing rich, hollow _thunks_ suggesting an empty crawlspace below. An empty crawlspace was an astounding waste of surface area in any dome but especially one the size of Tartarus.

Just inside the door, a clerk sat smiling at a long desk that seemed to serve equal purpose as concierge and cashier. He greeted them warmly, “Welcome back Mx. Dolce; Solarium 57 is ready for you, as always.”

The hulking silver cash register he sat behind was fitted with modern fingerprint-sensitive paneling on the side that didn’t face customers. Aster should have been fascinated by this little marriage of technologies. But he had his nose buried in his comms and so the sudden wave of heat inside the small foyer took him by surprise. Blinking up from a transfer confirmation— the last transfer confirmation; Cora, as usual, had been good for every cent promised— it takes him a moment to orient himself. “I didn’t think I’d need sunglasses on Pluto.” 

“Solar salons are a uniquely Plutonian innovation against succumbing to the void; don’t let anyone from Neptune try to convince you otherwise.” 

Lethe interlaced their fingers with his and drew him down a hall lined with neat doors-- some of which were open and through them, he could see that some led to more hallways and some opened onto parlors. Every inch of space was suffused with the same rich light and ambient heat. He dropped their hand just long enough to pull his coat off. 

He scrutinized the baseboards and the ceiling as they passed. Stopped the process of tugging his glove off his free hand with his teeth to ask, “Where are the light fixtures?” 

“I don’t know,” they lifted their shoulders in a delicate shrug, “it’s a trade secret and a well-guarded one. Six people died trying to find out in this year alone.” 

The door to their personal solarium was as inconspicuous as the others lining the halls but the parlor’s interior was lavish in wholly different ways to the public rooms Aster had peered into as they passed. Plants were scattered throughout the room; one wall had been overtaken by vines that he was quick to look away from, suppressing a shudder. The mock sunlight was no less radiant and he found it no easier to pinpoint the source of it.

Lethe spread out across their space as they made their way to what was clearly their favorite divan, removing their coat to expose as much of their skin as possible in the gauzy purple dress they wore underneath. “Ah, this is so much better.” 

Peter left his coat to smother an unfortunate chair beside the door as they waved their hand over the center of the table to bring up a projected menu of various coffees, teas, and pastries and flipped lazily through it. He’d dressed in the common uniform of a Plutonian tourist, namely layers, and the gentle ambient heat (which radiated the same way as the light but never at such an angle as to irritate the eyes) had him pulling off his sweater, too. He tossed it carelessly behind him as he made his way to his place at Lethe’s side.

“What do you think of Pluto, Aster, darling? You’ve been such a homebody these last weeks; I hope the dark isn’t getting to you.”

“What do I think of Pluto? The hospitality of its people is sorely underrated, to start, but truly? I think I’ve never found myself so enchanted by a place dictated by the circumstances of my career.” He paused, taking a moment to calculate. His comms buzzed quietly across the room in his coat pocket; no doubt Cora was beginning her litany of impatient threats. He caught Lethe’s hand so he could kiss their knuckles, an impulsive gesture more worshipful than contrived. “Which is to say you are entirely to blame for the fact that I don’t want to leave.”

"And yet you must." Lethe sighed and gave a little wiggle of their fingers in his grasp. "I know you can't stay, but I find myself selfishly wishing you would simply quit your job and let me keep you like the pretty thing you are."

“Keep me? Don’t tell me you’ve caught the collecting bug— that’s dangerous for a critic, leads to all kinds of unfortunate biases.”

"You're one diamondese swan too late to stop me," they teased, slipping their hand free to finish their order and withdrawing a small sketchbook and a pencil from an interior pocket of their coat. Inside were observational sketches, some a few years old by now, of locations and plants and figures. "I think I shall want more art stolen away soon. Liberated from its mistreatment."

“Ah, such sympathy for the under-appreciated and maligned artworks of the world— be careful no one takes unfair advantage.”

"Unfair advantage, how so?"

“It’s easy and... common to overcharge an enthusiastic collector if they don’t know the value of the services offered. Especially if the actual acquisitions are being done by a third party. Take the Cixi, for example. You might think it’s security entirely modern with its motion sensors and AI supplemented staff -- and therefore effective in protecting its precious artworks. Worth, perhaps, thirty thousand in service fees tacked onto the price of the swan in question… When, in fact, the work of ten minutes is more than enough to put a sculpture into a collector’s hands... or onto the black market for a significant markup. No after-hours aerial acrobatics necessary and no cost accrued.”

"I'm beginning to suspect that trade may not be your sole profession. All I'm hearing is to skip this middleman business altogether and just hire you."

“Trade and acquisitions often go hand in hand for the self-employed,” he conceded, sheepish at having shown his hand. “Although I would caution you, purely as a professional courtesy, to consider the question of what I’ve done to imply I won’t take advantage.”

They hum and start a doodle of some flowers in a planter within their private solarium, filling out the background of an older drawing of a pensive looking person sprawled over a chair, a glass of whiskey on the rocks clasped loosely in their dangling right hand. 

"I just know you wouldn't. After all, you didn't take the money I offered you your first morning here. And you haven't run off yet- so..."

Without missing a beat, he replied, “I know a historian on Europa who would will me her family’s estate and assembled fortunes in exchange for having the clock in your foyer in the years she has left... you’re very lucky it looks so good in your foyer.” Lucky, too, that Mrs. Ostorick wouldn’t let Callyx Giles or any other Melva family lackey within ten miles of her property after her last gala. 

He watched them draw out of the corner of his eye. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the critic is an artist too.

Lethe scoffed, but not in any serious way at Peter's dismissal of their observation. They graciously took the bait of a subject change, outlining the shape of the nasturtium petals surrounding the figure.

"I would be a hypocrite if I did not practice what I preach."

“Is he someone you know?”

Their pencil stopped midline at Aster's question as they measured their potential answers carefully. "Mm, will it endanger my clock if I say “yes”?"

“Your clock is safe from me-- Europa is too far away this time of the century to justify the length of the trip.”

"Ah, the beauty of Pluto, a bitch to leave unless the planets literally align." They didn't resume their drawing immediately, instead looking Aster in the eyes. "He is my ex, but he's still such a lovely subject to draw from time to time, even from memory."

“He’s beautiful, or you’ve made him beautiful, and I see why you’d want to draw him.”

"Oh, he was. But that's in the past, and it's much easier to live in the immediate present." 

They resumed sketching only to be interrupted momentarily by a knock on their door and a cheerful Heliopolis server setting their drinks on the table. Aster ignored them in favor of watching Lethe, rapt. 

They grinned at him. "I hope you don't mind I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

Lethe's was predominantly a rosy chai and drowned with milk, adorned with an edible white and pink flower for extra color. They set their work down to lift the cup and cradled it in their hands as if they could absorb the heat from it into their bones through their palms. Aster's tea was a black gunpowder variety, one they were sure he would enjoy, steeped to a dark amber color with the scent of cinnamon.

“Consider this a formal invitation to take as many liberties as you like, please.” His tea was still too hot to drink but he held it close anyway. Even safely away from the merciless wind outside he craved the heat. “I’ve never been so spoiled for delight as I am in your company, Lethe, new bruises notwithstanding.”

"Mmm, it's fun to be in the company of somebody as layered as yourself, Mister Wright." They took a sip of their tea. "I want to know everything I can in the indefinite time we have left. And then your comms coordinates after that, so I can know more from afar."

“Flattery will get you everywhere, temptrix,” he accused fondly, “I know a card game that you’d adore. All your bets are in the form of answers to questions.”

"Ah, will I get your comms coordinates if I win?"

“I suppose you’d have to include that among your questions ... and we’d need to come up with a more interesting penalty for lying outside the standard rules— they’re unnecessarily messy. And of course a deck of cards. We can hardly play without them.”

"I'm sure I could wrangle together all of those things within the week. Perhaps for our next date."

His smile was genuine and radiant. “I can hardly wait.”

* * *

_"What's that you're doing_?"

Lethe's voice drifted violet over the deep red of their heartbeat and the crackling of the fire. They'd indulged him, letting him keep it lit around the clock. 

It took Aster a long moment to react from within his personal Technicolor kaleidoscope. To raise his head from where he'd tucked himself against Lethe's side to keep one ear pressed against their rib cage. Their living sounds mesmerized him. Picturing every steady, heady beat of them through their own body and wistfully imagining what it might be to be carried through them like so much blood and oxygen. It was much nicer to think about that, at least, than the way the knots in the wood flooring kept winking at him. 

He looked up at Lethe then down at his hands. Woven between his fingers was a long thread picked from the hem of Lethe's robe. Idle and inattentive he'd been playing with it. 

"It's a sparrow," he said, holding up his hands to show them and twitched his fingers just so to make its wings shift in flight. 

"It's a game," he added or corrected, unable to help himself. He sat up with dizzy difficulty. He managed, with minimal flailing and without his hands, to right himself and face Lethe. "It _isn't_ a game-- you can make lace with it and tell stories, people put the pictures up in museums-- but it's also a game. From Brahma. Here, hold out your hands."

Lethe rose from their curious stillness to cross their legs and mimic him. Carefully, Aster slid the thread from each of his fingers onto each of theirs. A quick study, they pulled the same line, the middle one strung across their left index finger, to make the bird move.

"Perfect," Aster said, pleased, "and because you didn't mess it up, you get to make it something different-- then I'll take it back. You lose if you drop the thread... or run out of ideas, I suppose." 

Lethe cocked their head, scrutinizing the thread. “There are a few ways this could go…” 

"The angel usually comes after the sparrow," Aster suggested.

They raised their eyebrows.

"Weave _this_ thread through these three," he pointed with his pinky nail, "then drop your left ring finger altogether and pull on the whole thing-- ah, gently! Keep most of the tension in your right hand." 

Lethe followed his instructions with methodical precision and found they were suddenly holding a human figure in their hand. No, not a human, quite. "One of their wings is broken!" The symmetrical set of the sparrow had spread and splintered. They could see the wind displacing the feathers in thread as they fell.

Aster hummed an amber note. "It's part of the story." 

"Tell it to me." They were so intent, so _still_ , they vibrated with it. 

There was no denying them but he wavered on the anxious edge of the beginning. He barely remembered it. He didn't think his hands would recall it any better either. He took the thread back from Lethe, though they protested, collapsing the image onto itself to pick it apart and start fresh.

"To do this right I would need more colors and beads, and maybe even another person but-- you'll-- you’ll just have to use your imagination." 

They nodded, encouragement radiating from them in a gentle wave that made him look away.

"Before Brahma, before anything, there were only the stars and-- the stars and the shards of the sky scattered among them." The cadence of his voice fell into a gentle ebb and flow that he hadn't let himself use in years. His fingers worked deft and sure and wove a net speckled with points which, had he done it _properly_ , should have gleamed with golden beads in the firelight. "And in the sky was a sparrow, just the one, alone among the shards of the sky. It was alone but not lonely because it had endless things to see and to sing about. It had a new sky for every season--" 

Next came the part that always tripped him up: the careful shifting of threads to weave denser and lighter through the turning of the year. The careful flick and fall of fingers to bring shards to the fore and with them the illusion of passing time: "From snowmelt to spring rain to plura bloom to monsoon to fog under the mountains--” Working only in black with hands that were years out of practice, he had to leave out a few. Lethe, he was sure, had never been to Brahma. They wouldn't know the difference-- 

"But they were all as empty as the spaces between the stars. And the sparrow, after a while, grew tired. There was only it and the broken sky, it had nowhere to land, and no one to share its loneliness with. And one day, ruminating on its plight, it had an idea: it thought, _I should pull together the sky. If I do, maybe another bird will come and join me_."

He folded another thread here and pulled one there and the sparrow floated again in the empty space carved out by his palms. It was clearer this time, now that he was paying attention to the story that needed it. 

"But of course, it was only a sparrow. It wasn't any bigger than this," he gestured, indicating the tiny portrait in his hands, "and the shards of Brahma were, well, the size of a planet and every one of its rings, too. It was too much for a little sparrow to do all on its own." 

"And so the sparrow was still alone and still tired with this big, impossible idea-- and it did the only thing it could do. It took to the stars and asked _them_ for help." From his tone, it was clear that this was the point in the story where his own suspension of disbelief failed. But he pulled the little bird loose from its field of stars anyway, "And so the stars turned the sparrow into an angel." 

A wheel of wings or shards of a world or an abstraction of a solar flare, it was hard to tell what Aster held without the aid of color, shapes shifting in the black lines strung between his fingers.

"The Angel of Brahma was born and they did what they set out to do... but they couldn't just stop with the sky. Underneath those shards were more than just the seasons: there were the bones of the mountains and the bellies of the deep cavern seas." Places he had heard of but never seen. 

"It took them more lifetimes than you could count if you'd started counting the moment you were made, knitting the sky together with starlight and stubborn willpower... and for all their hard work they found they were still alone. But now they had a whole planet on which to live, all of Brahma, and they realized that planets orbit their own stars. Planets with stars seldom exist alone. The Angel took the gamble and sent a message out to orbit their star-- and they thought themself lucky when they received an answer." 

Peter stopped with the angel strung between his fingers. Their wings were outstretched and victorious. He stared at it. The thread was very black. He felt it pulling in on itself. 

He looked up, frowning, "The rest of the story isn't very good.” He tried to choose his words carefully, "You see, it's about the Kinshasan Revolution. A lot of ... bad things happened after Brahma was united under _New_ Kinshasa and they haven’t improved much since it fractured again."

Lethe blinked owlishly. They envisioned the living masterpiece the story might be in full color through his fingers and it took them a moment to refocus. “Does the Angel of Brahma ever stop being alone?” It might have been a children’s story but so many creation myths held great power under their simple artifice.

“Yes, the people it brought to Brahma ultimately killed it. It didn’t die alone,” he said. The truth was a blunt weapon in his hands. “We were never meant to be united and nothing about New Kinshasa understood that.”

"Oh, that's sad. We humans ruin everything, don't we? The Angel deserved better."

Aster snorted, a rude callback to his slips in character his first night on Pluto. “According to the Democratic Republic of Brahma, he was an ineffective puppet— or else a tyrant. Not much of the history survived other than the propaganda… and the stories, of course.” He looked again to the threaded lace between his fingers. Looking at it felt sticky. 

"Here, let me try again," Lethe asked, holding their hands up and Aster obliged them, fingers ghosting along theirs to loop the thread over without disturbing the image. Once secured, they studied the angelic figure carefully, eyes following the twisting pathways of thread to their ends before they make their hesitant pull. 

The angel splits from one central symmetrical figure into two in profile, facing each other down-- with a knot in the center of the image.

Their face collapsed. "Oh no, I think I ruined it." 

He made a soft sound of surprise and he stopped them slipping the thread from their fingers with a touch. “Wait! I don’t think you did-- well.” 

Aster squints at their work. He can’t see a way out of the knot in the center. It’s too cohesive. In color, he might have been able to pick it apart again but that would ruin what they’d made. He traced a finger along one of the throughlines between the figures and the knot. Its cohesion had made the threads stop trembling every time he blinked. 

Looking at it, he felt peaceful. 

“You lost the game, maybe,” he admits, “but I think you made a different ending to the story.” 

* * *

“Let me paint you.” Lethe murmured their suggestion against Aster’s bare shoulder. They were tangled together in the small hours of the morning, a charity gala safely behind them and a trail of clothes between the front door and the bedroom. 

Aster marveled at the burst of magenta their words inspired. He turned to face them. Their eyes were fathomless. A paired maelstrom-blue gaze repeated wherever he looked a dozen times over. In them he saw himself— Aster is Peter is no one at all drifting in the void but never quite cold. Some distant part of his mind confirmed that Lethe had indeed been right when they told him their personal supply of Technicolor was high quality. Far better than anything he’d managed to pick up on Shiva or Europa. He reached to tangle his fingers in their hair. It was thick and dark and there was very real danger he might drown in it while he carded their own words through it to tint it pink. 

He found the thread again in their hair and picked it up, “I can’t, darling, rules are rules.”

“I could leave your face out of it. Do you remember those Hieron portraits at the Cixi?”

Mention of the artist made him shiver, recalling the faceless figures that had stared back at him, imploring him to witness and to understand. 

“As if I could forget.”

“I could mimic them,” they continued. Their eyes were drinking him in but he couldn’t look away. “It wouldn’t be hard to just take a palette knife, layer the colors just so— no one would ever know it was you.”

“You know me too well.” 

“I think I’ve only just begun to grasp the enigma of Aster Wright,” they corrected, finding again, too easily, the right thing to say.

He made a contemplative noise. It was tempting to let them flay him. Let them make some facsimile of him immortal. But there were ninety-thousand creds sitting in an account in Aster Wright’s name and a string of connections just strong enough to hold up if tugged on by the right hands in the right places. 

He freed his hand from their silken hair to cradle their jaw and press a kiss into its corner. “Keep talking, you’re convincing me.” But the feeling of their faint stubble against his lips was a powerful counterargument. Why let them go when he could keep them here and map every last inch of them with his mouth?

“And that’s assuming if ever let anyone see the portrait—“

He pushed them onto their back— ostensibly to more easily feel their voice reverberating in their throat and chest. He could almost catch the sound of them on his lips and tongue, almost taste the red-glowing gradient of sound— but not quite. 

“— I don’t think I would keep you anywhere but my personal collection.”

“A secret?”

“No; a treasure. _Mine_.” 

Lethe ran their fingers through his hair, giving him goosebumps and ruining the few valiant curls that had survived their evening so far. He found a ticklish spot just below their ribs and the hollow of their belly jumped as they swallowed a laugh. “All mine to keep and admire. I couldn’t ever sell you; I’m not that cruel.”

They tightened their hand in his hair, close to the scalp, pulling a searing tension that made his jaw slacken with a gasp against their skin. His eyes were nearly black when he opened them again. “What kind of life is that for a portrait, for something that’s meant to be seen?”

He let them steer him but he set his own pace, pausing to worship seldom-touched places he found, the thin skin above their hip bone, the crease of their thigh. 

“I might show you off on special occasions.” They tugged at his hair and their impatience made him laugh. He backtracked in retaliation, sucked at the skin below their navel and sinking his teeth in slow and hard until their breath catches. “People would ask, of course,” they dug the nails of their free hand into his shoulder in lieu of pushing at him, his point taken, “about the beautiful man I had painted and I would have to tell them I never knew his name.”

* * *

Aster laid on a velvet chaise before the fire and let Lethe arrange him for a portrait. 

It was the robe that had convinced him, or so he would claim. Transparent, hemmed with luxurious marabou down and embroidered with asphodel flowers along the length of the sleeves, it was the sort of thing a stream starlet belonged in. It was Lethe's favorite. They offered to let him wear their favorite for the portrait and he'd relented, letting them arrange him to be drawn. Disheveled and kiss-bruised and draped in black silk chiffon he was the epitome of wanton allure. 

He stayed where they put him... mostly. Obedience wasn't always his strong suit. Still, he only reached out once or twice to pull them back in for kisses, greedy to touch and be touched. Little rebellions that were enacted in isolation, never moving more than he absolutely had to, a controlled economy of movement that proved he couldn’t help showing off.

“You can talk, you know,” Lethe teased when they were finally satisfied and settled, "I don't need your face to stay still." 

“I’m trying to figure out what you’d like to hear,” he replied, unable to be anything but honest with their eyes on him like this, a tangible weight drawn over him again and again, focusing here and there like pins in an insect displayed. They could do a lot of damage, looking so closely, but they're never anything but gentle.

"I just want whatever's on your mind." 

"Everything," came his answer with unexpected intensity. 

"So then tell me everything." 

"Most of it's boring," he said. 

Their patient silence beckoned him to continue, to illustrate just how boring his thoughts might actually be, and he couldn't help but continue. "The time and the weather, here but also on Europa and on Shiva and Venus. And how that affects the ship schedule departing Pluto for the next week and who might be likely to be traveling under those conditions and their net worth. The approximate value of the sapphire Magdah de Carlo wore at the gala last night and who I should find to sell it to... the "friends" in the pharmaceutical industry she mentioned and whether they're people I need to be worried about. Whether it makes sense for me to be telling you any of these things or if they should be coming from someone else entirely. Of course, I don't want to deal with _that_ fallout, so I think that if I just keep talking, I might be able to bring you around to not knowing anything more than what you already suspect." 

He hadn't moved a hair beyond what was necessary to breathe while he spoke, focused on the fireplace behind Lethe, but his heartbeat hard against his ribs.

"Oh, that really is _everything_." They twirled the bit of charcoal in their fingers, blackening the tips of them. "Should I be worried about these pharmaceutical friends if you are? I can always look into them, Magdah's a family friend...I'll just say Sev needs a new prescription. It's technically not lying."

He laughed, sliding from careless into anxious. "No, it's best not to ask around. No one knows I'm here and anyone who _is_ looking for me isn't someone I'd want to bring to your door... Not that they'd know to look for Aster Wright."

"Did you make some bad trades in a past life, dear Aster?" They sat in a chair opposite from the couch, giant sketchpad propped against their knees like an easel as they began to pull lines across it with graceful, sweeping motions. "Relax your shoulder, darling."

In the span of a few minutes the thin membrane between himself and Aster had begun to dissolve. 

" _I_ didn't, precisely speaking." He took a deep breath and tried to do as they bid. He focused on the small things: the crackling of the fire, the soothing drag of charcoal over paper. "And, really, the odds that they'll catch up with me now are slim."

"But you do not want to take that risk, if you're thinking about next week's departure schedule." They didn't sound disappointed, simply stating the truth for what it was, as they gazed at Aster from over the top of their sketchpad.

"I told you, I'm thinking about everything; I could give you the schedule for next month if you're curious, but it's not set yet. There's a solar flare due."

"It's okay. I believe you." They went quiet for a bit after that, dropping their gaze back to the paper to place a few more lines and a form shadow. It would be awkward if it weren't for the music they started to hum along with as they fell into a rhythm, or maybe a trance. The soft scrape of charcoal on paper became syncopated in time with the big band bopping softly through the living room from a hidden speaker.

“These aren’t people you want to run afoul of,” he said in an undertone. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if they involved you.”

* * *

“What is it like, being anyone and no one at the same time?” 

Peter went still. "Exhausting." The truth was small and fragile.

“I love you. I love all of you, my paradox," they breathed as they fell asleep against his chest with the truth staining their lips and gums black like wine. 

* * *

Peter couldn't breathe until he was sure they were unconscious and even then he didn't get out of bed until they started to stir until it was almost too late. He fell into distraction watching the sunlight play across their skin. There was never more than a dim grey hour of twilight on a lucky Plutonian day but the sun was bright when it came into contact with them. They were a conduit for a nameless and terrifying worship writ deep under their skin. Peter wanted to lie beside them and bask in it for as long as he could possibly stand to. And so he did. He laid beside them until he couldn't stand another second of it then waited a few seconds more. 

His greed scarred something indelible into him.

Then he quietly slipped out of bed and out of Aster Wright and gave in to selfishness to steal from them. With his new duffel bag slung over his shoulder he stepped mouse-quiet into the living room to find their sketchbook. He scored the page he wanted with the tip of his knife with a thin noise then pulled it free.

With gloves on, he scrawled a note on the page behind it in looping script: 

> _Lethe,_
> 
> _I hope you'll forgive me. I must have something to remember you by._

After a moment of suspended animation, he signed a name that wasn't his and allowed himself the dozen feet to the door to regret it.

He left Pluto. He traced loving fingers over its new memories in his mind, over and over to cement them, until he could no longer see the planetoid off the ship's starboard side. Then he folded them back onto themselves with cold hands and filed Lethe away for future consideration.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Hieron belongs solely to voidteatime who has graciously lent them to me so that I can write fluff and garbage.
> 
> 2) If you like comment prompts: tell us your favorite line (or lines) and why!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [concerning callyx giles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22102177) by [iimpavid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid)




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